


A State of Uniform Motion

by zeffyamethyst



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeffyamethyst/pseuds/zeffyamethyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's about apples. It's about trees. It's about the losing fight against gravity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A State of Uniform Motion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keptein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keptein/gifts).



> 1) IMPLIED CHARACTER DEATH. Seriously, heed this warning if that's not your kind of thing.  
> 2) This is for Kep. I warned her I would write this one day. And I did. SO HAH!  
> 3) Unbeta'd and only roughly edited. Sorry. :/

October. Originally the eighth month until Julius Fucking Caesar got it into his head to squeeze in a couple of months for himself and his nephew. That's what being rich, powerful and arrogant got you. Immortality of a sort.

Joe's got two out of three, which isn't too bad as far as birthrights go. He wonders if he can get a planet named after him with all that Stark money and Stark arrogance to back him up. Maybe a small satellite. Yeah, that'd do. Better than a charity, which, let's be honest here, _no one_ in their right mind would donate to. After all, 'Joseph Stark' was the kind of name that got doors slammed in your face. Politely, of course, but no is still a no.

Coincidentally, eight is also the number of times he's been admitted to intensive care. Turns out, superhero-ing is all kinds of dangerous. Thank God for super soldier serum. Three cheers for God and Country and Unethical Human Experimentations. Etcetera. Etcetera.

"Hey, Joe?" Sam the Nurse says from behind the curtain, interrupting Joe's awesome, so awesome musings. "You decent? Your sister's here to see you."

Joe looks down at his hospital gown--purple this time--and looks back up. "Nothing she hasn't seen before," he says, shrugging.

A disgusted noise from behind Sam then Peggy is sweeping around the corner, robin's egg blue dress fluttering violently. A lot of things happen violently in Peggy's presence. She's the best of their parents and the worst of them too. She's got dad's colouring and dad's attitude, and father's charisma and father's morals. Captain America's gotten a lot less preachy and a whole lot punch-y since she took over the mantle.

"Don't be so gross, Joe," she says, rolling her eyes. Peggy sits down like she owns the damn place. Well, okay, she does but that's beside the point. "Christ, you look like shit."

Oh, and dad's mouth. Can't forget that.

"And you look the picture of perfection yourself," Joe returns.

Peggy tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and gives him a look. 'A poised, dark beauty' one magazine called her then followed that up with, 'she has clearly inherited her father's easy social graces'. The former, Joe agrees with wholeheartedly. The latter, he might dispute, on the grounds that Peggy didn't have social graces. She had brains and a sharp tongue, neither one of which distracted Joe from the dark circles under her eyes. Joe had a feeling it wasn't the late night partying that had given her those.

"It's not my fault," he says pre-emptively.

"You blew point-O-seven on the scale."

"I was fine." He's not sulking, he's not.

Peggy's breath catches, and Joe knows she's holding back. She smiles, which is a sure sign she's pissed as all hell. "The Steel Witch isn't someone you take on alone if you're on top of your game, much less when you're drunk."

"I wasn't drunk." Joe frowned. "It was only a couple of shots." Or five. Who's keeping count?

"If you'd avoided those couple of shots you might have avoided the iron spike to your stomach," Peggy says, still smiling though her eyes are alight with so much fury Joe feels sick.

"I got better."

It's almost as if Joe can see the words hit her. She recoils like it's a physical blow and part of Joe is so goddamn proud he finally breaks her facade. Most of him though, is just tired. Tired of feeling like this. Like the weight of worlds and people and _expectations_ are on his shoulders. Shackles tying him to the ground when all he wants to do is get away from it all.

He wants to be back at the bar looking for the next great high. Not here in this room with unfamiliar furnitures and familiar guilt gnawing away at him.

"He's dead," Peggy finally says, quieter than he had ever heard from her. "He's dead and it's no one's fault. He's fucking dead and he wouldn't want to see you like this."

"Well, we wouldn't know would we," Joe says, laughter spilling out of his mouth like so much ground glass. He licks his lips, surprised he doesn't taste blood. "C'mon, Peggy, tell me exactly what the dead man is thinking."

Sorrow, Joe has come to realised, don't have be overt displays. Sorrow doesn't have to make tears well up in bright blue eyes and trail mascara down cheeks. Sorrow can be anything from a flare of nostrils to a harshly whispered, "Screw you."

Sorrow can be the ache in his chest. It can be laboured breath. It can be a gravestone. It can be an apology that will never be heard.

 

******

 

Joe hates Natasha Romanov. Really, truly hate her.

"Another ten minutes and then you can rest," she says, imperiously.

"Ten? You said--" Joe has to stop to gasp for much needed air. "--Five before."

"In Soviet Russia, I lied." Natasha taps his hand. "Now keep going."

Physical rehab is bad enough without a sadistic ex-assassin SHIELD agent to be his own bloody cheerleader. If the word 'cheer' also means 'to flog' because that's what it feels like. His back aches, his legs ache, his arms ache, his head is this close to killing him. The only part of him that doesn't ache are his genitals but he'd be worried if they were.

He keeps walking, one foot in front of the other. Work past the exhaustion. Ignore his body crying for relief. It all hurts but pain is good, it's how you know you're alive. It's evolution's way of saying, 'good job, dumbass, you haven't died yet.'

Right in front of left. Then left in front of right. Right in front of le--oh fuck.

Arms catch him by the waist before he can hit the ground. They don't stop his descent but slow it so he ends up on his arse with a soft 'whomp,' instead of a sickening crack. " _Fuck_ ," explodes out of Joe's throat. So goddamn close.

Natasha crouches down, and reaches out to grip his shoulder. "You did well. Setbacks are to be expected."

Joe doesn't care if flying purple hippos are to be expected, he wants to be better right the fuck now. If he didn't hate magic so much, goddamit. "Again," he says when he catches his breath.

"Rest first."

"I can't--"

"You can. Detoxing is hard enough on your body, let's not push it beyond what it can handle."

"I am not detoxing," Joe snarls, straining against the arms holding him down.

Natasha's face says she thinks otherwise but all she does is pat his cheek in a loving aunt fashion and walks away.

Joe breathes and breathes and eventually looks up at his rescuer and says, "I'm not."

"I know," Margaret says.

Joe met Margaret when she was just a rookie super from England who came over to train under Captain Marvel. He made the mistake of hitting on her just before their training session. Margaret had said nothing, smiling politely, then proceeded to kick the crap out of him. And then she'd flirted with him, while keeping him pinned to the mattress with one hand. She was ruthless in battle and carefree in civilian life. She didn't believe in limits, didn't believe in not giving her all, didn't believe in being what other people wanted her to be. And Joe thought he might be in love.

One alien invasion and a joint mission with the X-men later, he decided yeah, definitely in love.

Which would be a great thing except for the part where Joe has this sinking suspicion he's never going to be good enough for her. In the stable and giving her what she needs kind of way. As much as Joe would like to blame it on her being Captain Freaking Marvel and how no guy could ever measure up, he's seen enough psychiatrists to know the fault lies with him.

"So," Joe says, when his heart stops trying to pound its way out of his chest. "You come here often?"

"You're not half as cute as you think you are," she says, not bothering to hide her smile.

"True," Joe says and nods sagely. "I'm twice as cute."

"Uh huh," Margaret says with a jaundiced look. "Your sister wants me to talk to you."

Joe freezes. "About?" he asks like he doesn't fucking know.

"Oh this and that. Daddy issues. The drinking. The superhero-ing without any regards for your own well being. That kind of thing."

"And?"

"And if I wanted to mediate sibling disputes I would have stayed an au pair. You two are old enough to talk it out," she says firmly.

Joe tilts his head back, her smile is still gorgeous from this angle. He might be just a tad biased though. "Bet you were a hot au pair."

"Damn straight. I bought all the widowers to the yard." Margaret never seems to have a problem saying what she's thinking. Joe envies her that. "You know she's only interfering because she cares."

"Yeah," Joe mutters, looking down at his useless legs. "That doesn't make it any easier."

"I know," Margaret repeats, and doesn't let go.

 

******

 

October 18th arrives without much fanfare.....Joe wishes.

He wakes up to the hosts of Good Morning America gushing over his dad and everything he'd done for the great US of A. He's picking up the remote to throw at the TV before he thinks about it. At the peak of his swing a snuffled snort comes from beside the bed and breaks his momentum.

Margaret is curled up on a chair, blanket covering every inch of her from neck down except for her toes peeking out from the gap between sheet and chair. Her hair looks awful. Joe reaches up to touch his own hair, yeah, his feels awful too.

Putting down the remote noisily is enough to wake up Margaret. A jerk and a soft gasp Joe hears because of the serum, because he's so close, and she's fully awake and ready for action. She blinks, then, "Morning."

"Morning." He eyes her. "Did you stay the whole night?"

"Mmmhm," she says, stretching. "What's the time?"

Joe sneaks a glance at the clock. "Seven."

"Oh hell, I have..." She looks at him. "The service is at 9."

Expecting it didn't mean it hurt any less. Joe swallows, sucking spit into his dry mouth. "You need to get ready then."

"Yeah." Margaret puts on her shoes, smooths down her hair and looks vaguely presentable. "Never gets easier does it?" she says, her smile lopsided.

She had lost her mother when she was eleven, Joe remembers. Car crash. "No. Kinda hoped it would."

"You'll be all right," she says as much a promise as an order. A quick kiss on the cheek that takes away some of the sting of the moment, then she's at the door giving him a smile. "Don't be too upset at her."

"Why--" but it's too late, she's gone.

Upset at who? The only person Joe can think of off the top of his head is Peggy and why would he be...oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

"Holy crap," Sam yelps in the corridor. "You're--"

"Yes. Can I see my son?" a familiar baritone says.

Joe closes his eyes. Fuck. This. Fuck Peggy and her interfering schtick. Fuck everything, basically. He doesn't open his eyes even when he hears the curtains being drawn aside. They remain shut until the unmistakable sound of someone sitting down in the chair.

"Hey, Joe," his father says.

Keep breathing, he just has to keep breathing. "Father. How'd Peggy get you here?"

"She didn't. I asked her where you were."

"Oh wow, she didn't immediately run off and tattle? I'm shocked." Yeah, Joe's being a dick. He knows that. Goddamn if he can stop his mouth though.

His father watches him. That's all he does. Just watches him and Joe's skin crawls at the unwanted attention. "What?" he snaps.

"How are you?"

"Peachy," Joe says, twirling a finger to indicate the hospital room. "As you can see. So you can go back to saving the world or whatever I'm interrupting."

His father frowns and somewhere a kitten probably dies. "You're my son. You'll always come first."

"Tell that to the boarding school," Joe snarls. "Or the nannies. Or the butler. Or Peggy. Might be news to you, father, but coming first doesn't mean a hug when you have the time to spare."

"I--" His father runs a hand over his face. "This isn't what I came here for. Peggy told me how you got hurt."

Joe can't help that slightest flinch. "You mean saving New York? Yeah, that was on the evening news," he blusters through the sharp stab of worry with the panache of a Stark.

"No, she told me _how you got hurt_." Oh, great, father was putting on the Voice. If only being over sixteen came with an immunity to it.

"Whatever. She blows things out of proportion. You know that."

"I read the doctor's report," father says, all stern leader of man.

"Aren't they meant to be private?" Joe volleys right back. His father has the grace to look ashamed.

"I was worried. And it turns out I was right to be. How long have you been doing this?" If Joe were in a better state of mind, he might have cared how devastated his father sounds. As it is, he acknowledges it and uses it to feed that guilt/anger burning in the pit of his stomach.

"I'm dealing with it."

His father sighs, the sound dragged out him unwilling and painful. "That's what your dad used to say."

It's a punch right to the stomach, it's the emotional equivalent of being thrown into a building and Joe wants to scream. "Shut up," he orders. "Shut up, don't talk about him."

"Joe--"

"No," Joe says. Everything is slipping away, his hold on control is tenuous at best and how dare his father bring up his dad. He had to know what it would do to Joe. "You don't get to do your thing where you tell me it's all right or whatever because it's _not all right_."

Something rips. A glance downwards reveal it's the hospital blanket; his nails have shredded through. He tries to smooth it down but his hands are trembling too hard for it to achieve much and he gives up.

"No, it's true. It's not all right." The admission surprises Joe so much he finally looks at his father. More wrinkles, Joe thinks inanely, a hell of a lot more wrinkles. There's silver mixed in with the blond hair too, something Joe's never noticed before. "But your dad wouldn't blame you. He loved you."

"I got him killed." The words have been branded into his mind since that day, and he'd spent the past seven years waiting to hear someone else say them. But not even his harshest critics and the meanest TV hosts have voiced that opinion. When it comes to his dad, Joe's doomed to be forever cast in the role of the son he died protecting. Fuck that, honestly.

His father's hand is heavy on his shoulder, filled with a warmth and forgiveness Joe's not sure he'll ever be ready to accept. "You didn't, I know you don't believe me right now, and that's okay. But you do need to believe me that this isn't the path he'd want you to walk down."

Joe _knows_ that. He's obsessively researched his dad for some stupid highschool project he doesn't even remember anymore, and he knows about his dad's daily struggle with alcohol. Knowing it doesn't mean the booze burns less going down his throat. It doesn't help less. It just makes the hangover worse.

He licks his lips, swallowing hard. "I'll see you later," he says, which isn't a 'get out' but it isn't acceptance either. "At the house." That though, that's an olive branch he hasn't offered in a while.

"Later," his father easily promises, though Joe can sense the words he is desperate to say. Joe receives a kiss to his forehead, like he's a little kid again. "Stay safe."

"Yeah," Joe replies and watches his father walk out the door.

It's around lunchtime when Joe finds the business card his father left him. It's for a rehab centre in California. Complete anonymity. it says. It takes him all the courage he has, and it's dinner by the time he pics up the phone, but he calls.

"Hi," he says to the operator. "My name is Joseph Rogers-Stark and I need help."

**Author's Note:**

> 1) The name Joe comes from Joseph, Steve's father. Peggy is....well, you know.  
> 2) Joe's maybe 18 in this? But hey, he's his dad's son. Starting the alcoholism process early.


End file.
